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camilleonne · 8 months

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Trying to work out Gale age+ timeline, plus analysis

BG3 is my first introduction to the DnD lore, so this is really just me trying to work out where the BG3 story fits into the broader timeline of DnD. All of this information I got from the Forgotten Realms wiki, so if I'm misunderstanding anything I'd love input!

My goal with this is to guess how Gale's personal story fits into the timeline of the Forgotten Realms, mainly to estimate how old he might be and how long his relationship with Mystra was. According to the Wiki, Mystra was only recently resurrected, which means her relationship with Gale is very restricted in how long it could have been.

Here's Mystra's timeline:

1385 - Mystra dies, the Weave becomes unstable, magic changes, and the Spellplague begins

1395 - the Spellplague mostly ends, but the Weave is still unstable and Mystra is still dead

1479/1480 - Mystra returns with help from Elminster, magic starts to go back to normal

1482 - the Second Sundering begins, which aims to reorder the hierarchy of gods

1484 - gods begin acquiring Chosen mortals in order to cement their power

1487 - Mystra returns to her full power, the Weave is finally restored, and the Second Sundering ends

1488 - prayers to deities are ignored, and instead divine missives are directed through deities' Chosen

1489 - prayers begin to be answered again, while Chosen's powers and gifts are revoked by their patron gods, since they no longer serve a use to their gods. Only a few Chosen retain their powers.

1490 - nothing of note happens, according to the Wiki

1491 - Mystra restricts mind-reading magic. Otherwise, nothing of note happens pertaining to Mystra

1492 - the plot of Baldur's Gate 3 happens

If I understand this timeline correctly, the earliest Mystra could have begun interacting with Gale is the year 1480. But because this is when she had only just been resurrected, this is likely when she began to "mentor" him, and not when their romantic relationship began.

It was probably sometime between 1482-84 that Gale became Chosen and his romance with Mystra began. And if Gale was also one of the many Chosen who were cast aside by their gods in 1489, simply because he was no longer useful, then their romantic relationship would have lasted 9-10 years at most, but more likely was 7-8 years. But still! Nearly a decade of having a close relationship with your patron deity is hugely influential on someone's personality and outlook on life, and definitely explains where a lot of Gale's arrogance and hubris come from.

1480-82 - earliest possible time frame Mystra could have begun interacting with Gale

1482-84 - likely when Gale is Chosen, and the earliest their romance could have started

1489 - Gale likely loses his status as Chosen, and with it his extra powers gifted to him by Mystra. He would have been cast aside for no reason other than he was no longer useful to Mystra. This likely happened with little to no explanation from Mystra, forcing Gale to guess as to why he had been cast aside by his god and lover

1490 - this is likely the year that Gale searches for the "missing Weave" and takes the orb into himself, destroying his innate magical gifts and leaving him weakened and dying

1491 - Gale isolates himself in his tower for a year, depressed and heartbroken

1492 - BG3 plot occurs. One way or another, Gale comes to terms with his relationship with Mystra and manages to remove the Karsite Weave from himself

Gale mentions something about being called "delusional" by his professors when he graduated from wizard college (or whatever it's called). My guess/headcanon is that Gale would have graduated wizard school before Mystra began to mentor him. So he'd be, at the youngest, 21 when she initiates contact with Gale. Gale mentions that he'd been in relationships before Mystra, but that she was his longest partner, and 21 fits that backstory pretty well. This means that Gale is either 30 or 31, at the youngest, when Mystra casts him aside. This puts Gale at approximately 33-35 years old when BG3 occurs.

Another important thing is that, at least from Gale's perspective, he was cast aside by Mystra suddenly and without explanation. This left him having to guess why he was no longer one of her Chosen, which is what motivated him to win back her favor. Unfortunately, by trying to win her back, Gale took in the Karsite Weave, which ate away at his innate magical abilities and left him even weaker than he had ever been before.

Something that sticks out to me about this timeline is what Mystra says to Gale when he's finally able to confront her. She says to him something to the effect of "I would have made you my Chosen again, you just needed to be patient. But because you were impatient, you will never be my Chosen again". Likely the key difference between Elminster and Gale as both being powerful wizards devoted to Mystra is that Elminster understands that Mystra is a goddess, and should be treated with a sort of awe. If she does something that he doesn't understand, he just defers to her judgement as a goddess. But since Gale was in love with her, he treated their relationship like one between mortals, not that between a deity and their faithful. Gale's main folly is that he was in love with Mystra, while she was just using him as a pawn to consolidate her power. She probably wasn't lying to him about him being gifted, and probably would have made him Chosen again when it suited her, but Gale wanted more and couldn't stand the lack of communication, and so those powers were revoked from him.

It's really sad because Gale wanted real love, and wanted to be treated as an equal to Mystra. In a normal, human relationship, begin treated equally by your partner is a normal expectation. But because Mystra is a god and would never acquiesce her power, especially after only very recently regaining full control of it, Gale was doomed to be heartbroken. Also, the fact that Mystra cast Gale aside without telling him why, then didn't warn him that the Weave he found was deadly and would kill him, and then didn't tell him how to fix it, and then told him to kill himself to apologize, then ONLY tells him the truth of the situation after he starts to threaten her power, is super shitty. Can you blame him for any of it when he was literally ghosted by his goddess/girlfriend of 10 years?

The fact that Mystra is one of the "good" gods and can't even be bothered to treat one of her Chosen with decent respect, after manipulating him for his entire adult life, is super messed up. It really ties into the subthemes of BG3 about gods and how they just... really don't give a shit about their followers. Even the "good" ones still only really care about their power and protecting their interests. Like obviously Shar and Vlaakith are evil and treat their followers like shit, but the fact that Mystra does essentially the same thing with zero remorse, and then also blames Gale for all of it and forces him to beg her for forgiveness, is... sad.

And that's why Gale is a sweetheart and deserves all the love. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

#hi im super normal about this game and character #sorry for the essay i just literally dont have another person to talk to about bg3 lmao #bg3 #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #gale #bg3 analysis #i also love gale and im like. kinda obsessed with him. wishing he was real rn fr #rambling

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y-rhywbeth2 · 6 months

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Lore Compilations (+ this blog's tagging/filter list at the end)

A WIP of a pinned post table of contents to tidy up the blog while I empty my fixations onto it plus a lore accuracy disclaimer (so I don't have to keep typing one), because why not. I like tables of content.

Disclaimer regarding lore accuracy: If you combine 50 years, 5 editions, 10+ settings, god knows how many novels, and then all the writers who all retcon and contradict each other's work then what you get is a clusterfuck. The lore I show here is compiled from all five editions of the game. You will likely see stuff out there that contradicts some things I say, or stuff I didn't mention/know. That's the lore for you. If you were the Dungeon Master making your own story, your job would be to pick and chose and build your own take on the setting out of it. I, personally, heavily favour older lore. Larian absolutely did this with Baldurs Gate 3 - frankly, I don't think they even know half this lore even exists, and Bioware took some liberties in the original games too. Wizards of the Coast themselves trample D&D into the ground all the time! All D&D is near enough fanfiction built on fanfiction. Therefore, if you find any information useful you may take it, leave it or tweak it to your desire for your own story, because it's D&D lore, and that's how it works.

---

TABLE OF CONTENTS [WIP] (I make no promises as to the speed or order at which any of this is produced)

Baldurs Gate: The City #1 | Demographics | Law & Legal System | Aministration & Government | ???

Human Names

Religion How religion works in the Realms, the different pantheons in the world and then individual posts dedicated to the gods as individuals, how and why to worship them and how their churches function

Religion | Priesthoods and Temples | Deities

Death and the Afterlife Dying | Judgement | Afterlives

Vampires Feeding | "Biology" | Hierarchy & Powers | Weaknesses & Cures | Psychology

Drow Culture | Other Drow Cultures

Planars & Planetouched Tieflings | Githyanki | Bhaalspawn | Devils

Orcs

Hin - That's "halfling", if you're over 3'4" Overview | Culture | Homelands | Religion

Gnomes Culture | Homelands | History | Religion

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Tagging system:

Various lore things that don't go in the larger compilations are tagged lore stuff. Things that aren't lore will get tagged babbling.

For sensitive material, such as if I feel like poking at the various delightful topics presented in the game:

I'll use edgelord hours as the generic "reader discretion advised"

The tag villainous nonsense means Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

the family circle is an extra warning for discussing the themes and subtexts such as those present with Bhaal's cult and the Bhaalspawn: including reproductive horror and sexual abuse, including the incest.

If I feel like posting anything I scribbled ("art"), the tag will be the scribbles

When I'm making posts and being negative or complaining about video games and trivial stuff, it will be filed as: griping

Whenever I find or consider something new about the Dead Three and/or want to rant and scream insults at Bane again, my tag is the idiot three

When I babble about my characters, I tag it OCs, and the ocs are also tagged by name. So far I've only mentioned Vel

If I don't want to put my babbling about certain characters into the tags, I'll just put the / in front. /astarion, /orin, /gortash, /durge, etc

When I want to babble about stuff happening in my game as I play it, they're tagged playthrough shenanigans

When I start talking about my oc's romance with Astarion I'll tag it petty murder boyfriends

#lore stuff

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spacexseven · 1 year

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Ngl god darling is better than darling with a god ability tbh

Also would nikolai try to kill god darling? And I wonder what dearest sigma would think, he's just so lovely

OH ALSO HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEW XIAO THING? It's been around for a while and idk if I asked you about it but he's so pretty wth

not sure what xiao thing you're talking about but he's always so pretty i want to squish him

cw: yandere themes, bad end for nikolai :<

even with your years of watching people, you had yet to see someone like nikolai.

despite his claims that his motives were perfectly clear and that you should be able to understand him perfectly, he always seemed, to you, like a puzzle missing its final piece. what was that piece for him? was it the morality he lacked? when you asked him that, though, he told you that he liked to think he was a puzzle with too many pieces—sentience when everyone else lived like puppets, desire greater than any other, and so on. how could you complete an anomalous puzzle, with no real final picture?

"tell me," he once asked, voice uncharacteristically somber, eyes gazing down at his blood-streaked hands, "can a human become a god?"

it occurred to you then that nikolai was only trying to run from something. something that made him human, something he hated. you think back to the times when he told you he wanted to be free, wanted to stop feeling. was that the extra piece he couldn't get rid of?

still, he was kind to you. or at least as kind as he could be, between jovial, teasing comments and moments of unfiltered rage. he called you his friend, but he said that about fyodor too, and a few nights ago he was trying to convince you to kill him.

"can a god die?" at your questioning look, he added, "can you?"

"i'm not sure. i haven't gotten that close yet," you admitted "but i suppose for a god, being forgotten is as close to death as they can get."

"i won't forget you," he smiled, but the gesture was far from reassuring when his eyes glimmered with something bright.

you wondered if you had unintentionally sparked something in him. you even considered the possibility that you'd wake up the next morning to find him with a knife at your throat. if he was determined to kill fyodor to achieve what he thought was pure freedom, who's to say you won't be next? knowing nikolai, it was easier to believe that he was a monster, a creature of pure evil, bloodthirsty, and seeking to haunt. but things were never that simple. there were times when your heart ached for him, wondering why he had to go down this path. and those times, you truly felt useless, wondering if you couldn't do anything even in your position.

now, you wonder, if it was your sympathy that made you weak.

"it's not fair. i won't forget you," nikolai sighs, "even if anyone else will. but you'll live on even if i'm not here and you'll forget me."

you wish to tell him that you won't, but in your current position, bleeding out at a rapid pace from numerous wounds and head spinning, you can barely handle the pain, let alone move your dry lips. you remember that nearby you is fyodor's body, cold and long dead. it was almost cruel how the closest you'd ever felt to being human was when you were dying.

"hey, but you're a god!" he must have thrown his hands up, from your memory of him, but nikolai's voice grows shriller, though you can't tell if it's from excitement or panic, "you'll come back, like that thing you mentioned before? reincarnation! and you have...powers..." you could tell instinctively that he was looking over at fyodor's corpse.

you want to tell him that you aren't sure. you've never been much use, even as a god. you've always liked being a human more. maybe you will come back, but likely not, and you definitely can't save fyodor anymore. you don't think anyone can. but the words escape you as your vision goes black. the only thing accompanying your dying body was a warm hand on your cheek and nikolai's incoherent mumbling.

sigma, admittedly, was your favorite. you saw a little bit of yourself in him and his desire to find his purpose. but most of all, you liked his determination, his unwavering resolve. it was nice to see how he ran the casino so perfectly, and you thought his position complemented him well.

but unlike nikolai who was easy to sling an arm around and drag out or fyodor, who was always ready to listen to any word that came out of your mouth, sigma was a little harder to get to. he was always working, cleaning up after the other two's messes, and keeping his customers happy. always on the go, and it was getting harder and harder to catch him. the only times he seemed to be able to listen to you was when you caught him staring out the balcony at the world below the casino, only accompanied by the moonlight. he was always gentler then, softer, but more solemn. it was during one of those nights that he finally asked you something.

"so, you're really a god?"

you awkwardly shuffle, "yes. i know fyodor is a bit too enthusiastic about it, but i really can't do much anyway. i'm more like...the remnant of what i used to be."

"is this how the world looks like to you?" he asks, looing at the tiny blinking lights below.

"it's...overwhelming. the world is so big and full of life, and i've never felt like i was a part of it. i love being around people more than anything, but i'm always reminded that i'll never be like them."

sigma stiffens up, still not meeting your gaze, "you're looking for it too, right? to feel like you have your own place here..."

and then, for the first time since you met him, he smiles, "at least we have each other." you smile back, not realizing he took it a little too seriously.

despite your differences, you were just like sigma—maybe that was why he liked you so much. sigma knew all his customers by heart, slaving away to memorize each face and the mannerisms behind it, their likes and dislikes, just to design an ideal experience for them here. all he ever had was the sky casino, and he was aware of just how easily it could be taken away from him. because of this, it wasn't anything unusual to see sigma meticulously studying each of his guests, observing them closely, and noting down his thoughts. maybe that's why you never suspected anything when he stared at you for far too long, something other than a sense of duty burning behind his eyes, something unlike his usual concerns dominating his mind. maybe that was why you didn't mind his new interest in you, stepping in to drag you away from nikolai and boldly insisting to fyodor that he needed to talk to you.

if only you had said something then, you wouldn't have to face this situation; sigma on his knees, pleading for you to stay, to not follow fyodor out of the casino again. you might stay away for weeks, he insisted, and it wouldn't be safe. all he had was you, so please, don't leave with him. and looking at the pain in sigma's eyes, you already knew it wouldn't end well if you didn't comply.

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four-leaf-loco · 5 months

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On Gale's Inactivity as a God

So one thing I noticed while autisticly reading the forgotten realms lore is that Tymora (goddess of good luck) is weaker than other gods because she gives so much of her divine power to her followers; aka she actually helps them. Gale taking an approach of 0 real contact might actually be a part of a plan to overtake the godly power structure, like Lathander tried (resulting in a lot of fuck ups and Tyche, his long term lover, dying and splitting into Basheba and Tymora, essentially saved via the help of Selune). Lathander wanted to dethrone Ao and take his place essentially.

On romanced partners; having a fellow loyal God to possibly be interconnected with in the eyes of mortals and most likely give out their divine powers like or more than other gods could be a tactical move. Take off some suspicion from him maybe. It will make taking over Ao easier too. Just one more god on his side guaranteed. I mean he is to thank for making you a god. You're allied to him, a lesser god to an even lesser god. But who knows, this is all conjecture.

My Roleplay Choices

Romancing Gale as a good or neutral aligned character often leads to encouragment or inspiration for him. Maybe a character like that would become a God of those things. A kind God who wishes to help their followers with inspiration and bouts of creativity/intuition. That would pair very very well with Gale, God of Ambition. Encouragment leads to Ambition. It's exactly what happened to him, well meaning words lead to him getting bolder. Defy his mortal status. Not just use the crown but reforge it. Yes you threw the crown into the river but baby your fault for letting me know where it went.

Using your powers only helps his. Maybe people will worship you together. Maybe Gale will be the main deity due to him ascending first and being the end goal. Most of the divine power would filter to him as you are left to gather the souls of your dead followers, attend to their needs, help them. Grow your flock. Gale will have statues and temples dedicated to him (with small shrines to you). He'll say it's to your love but you as a god know better, you just turn a blind eye, another cheek. He doesn't tell you of his plans and the other gods take pity. They can all see it clear as day, already taking sides. You're stuck with him, dressed in his regalia, his, his, his. Gale's ambition fully removed from you now. A project of the past. But as a god, not really a person anymore, the two of you an endless loop of give and take that feeds into an inseparable dynamic. He wouldn't grow as much as he needed to without you and you couldn't either, not really. The target would be on your back when the other gods decide it's time to put a stop to Gale's plans. You could leave and join the others but oh how your divinity sings for his. Intertwined for eternity. If you die he'll bring you back as soon as possible (he won't) (it's only fuel for his fire, oh what have you done)(the divine will come undone)(or he will fall harder than any else).

But idkkk just some messy thinks and thoughts and interpretations 💭

Hope you enjoyed them! Also comment your ideas for what God your character would be, I mostly play bards or bard multiclass so I wanna knowwwww yoursss 🔥💯❤️

#bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #ascended gale #god gale #this man has too many tags good lord #be deserves it though lets be real #call him baby girl too LOL #text post #gale romance #gale x tav #for good measure

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searchingforgravity · 4 months

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Nightmares (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: You are awoken to the sound of a frightened Elvis, lost in his nightmares. You gently wake him as you comfort him from his dreams.

TW: Crying, slight cussing, mention of past relative, mention of dying (I think that's all?)

Rating: PG

Word Count: 813

A/N: This is a short little one I wanted to do of the reader comforting Elvis in his time of need. I hope you enjoy!

"Mamma...".

You are awoken from your sleep, groaning softly at the suddenness of it. Sleep tries to take you once more as the room once again goes silent.

"Mamma, stop! Stop it!"

Your eyes pop open as you freeze in your spot, jolted awake. Your back is turned to your sleeping husband. You hear tears in his voice.

"You're gonna kill yourself! Mamma please!" His voice croaks loudly, riddled with sleep as a soft sobs escapes his lips.

You heart drops to your stomach, sleep now forgotten as you quickly turn towards Elvis, tears springing to your eyes as you sit up, reaching for him.

"Elvis, honey," you whisper as you shake him lightly, trying your best to turn him to face you.

He is dead weight, though as he is still lost in his nightmare of his late mother.

"Mamma, I can't! I can't!" he shouts now, his face buried in his pillow. Your heart leaps as fear shoots through your body like lightning. This has never happened before; you have no idea how to help him.

"Elvis, your sleeping! Wake up honey!" You call louder than before, shaking him more aggressively.

All the sudden, Elvis shoots up into a sitting position, gasping so loud it's as if he's gone years without breathing. He doesn't seem to realize he's awake yet as he calls for his mother once last time, causing tears to sting at your eyes as you allow him to blink awake. Taking in a few stuttering breaths, he allows his eyes to adjust to the darkness, looking around until they land on you.

"W-What? What happened?" he croaks, his voice raw from yelling. His eyes look in yours, lost. He looks boyish in his vulnerable state as he searches your face for what happened to him. He looks frightened as a cold sweat dampens his dark hair. You've never see this look on his face before.

You have to quickly wipe the tear that trailed from your eye down to your cheek before scooting over to his side, taking his face in your hands.

"You had a nightmare, sweetie. Just a bad dream," you soothe, your hand traveling to his forehead as you push his hair out of his face.

His fear and confusion are quickly replaced with a deep embarrassment as his cheeks redden, avoiding your gaze. It just about breaks your heart.

"Oh. Oh, God, I'm sorry-" he starts as you see recognition in his face as you imagine his dream comes flooding back to him.

"Elvis," you whisper, drawing his eyes back to yours, tears threatening to escape from his blue orbs.

"I'm your wife, you don't need to be embarrassed in front of me. It's okay," you breathe, feeling like if you speak too loud he'll draw inside himself like you've seen him do before.

A tear falls from his face as he looks down at the sheets, not being able to look at you anymore, humiliation riddling his body.

"My baby," you whisper as your heart pounds in your chest, drawing yourself closer to him until he close enough to embrace.

Wrapping your arms around his tired frame, you bring your lips to his cheek, kissing the now tear soaked skin as he allows his tears to fall freely, not being able to stop them even if he wanted to.

"It was my mamma. I was s-so awful. My poor mamma," he whispers, as if scared to say the words.

"Oh, Elvis," you murmur pulling away to look in his eyes, swiping your thumbs under his eyes to collect to moisture formed.

He looks into your eyes now with his reddened ones, sorrow in his features.

"I love you, Satnin. S-So much," he mumbles, silent tears escaping from him. You push hair out of his face again as it settles, and feel a trickle of your own tear running down your face.

"I love you too, always."

You connect your lips to his in a loving, comforting embrace before pulling back and leaning back onto the bed.

"Come here, sweetie," you breathe as you gesture for him to lay his head on you. He complies as he lays beside you, careful not to crush you under his weight as he lays his head on your chest.

You fingers thread through his hair softly as you hear a hiccuped sob escape him.

"Goddamn, I'm actin' like a child," he groans, trying to rid himself of his sorrow, his hands playing nervously with your nightie, before softly wrapping around your waist.

You shush him softly as you play with his hair, causing him to sigh softly into you.

"Stop that. You can cry if you need to," you mumble, kissing his head. And he does. He silently cries into your frame over the painful loss of his mother as you hold onto him, rocking him back to slumber.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@tantamount-treason @father-of-2cats @peaceloveelvis @littlehoneyposts @elvisalltheway101 @horrorgirl4life @goldobsessionsworld @flowersofcement

#elvis imagine #elvis presley #elvis 2022 #austin elvis imagine #austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis fic

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bethdutten · 1 year

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the ending i learned to love

summary: One of these days, he’ll get it right and he’ll see it through, one way or the other.

warnings: suicidal thoughts, self-harm, angst but with a happy ending!

a/n: this had no business being this depressing im sorry

Bucky survived everything, more than anyone should conceivably be forced to survive, but he wasn’t sure if he could survive himself.

He wished he could stop punishing himself. Could feel like it was enough. Sometimes he thinks he should stop calling himself a survivor; because, did he? Did he survive, if he still feels like this?

It was a regular November night when he met you. It also happened to be the night he had decided to finally commit to either living or dying. He couldn’t keep existing in this in-between place-- feeling like a man who should be dead, living anyway without actually wanting to.

He told Steve he was going for a walk, headed out towards Central Park, which was exactly the same and completely different than he remembered. He walked with his hands in his pockets, head down, going over the pros and cons of killing himself like he did every night, when a loud bark pulled him out of his thoughts.

It was the only warning he got before a large mass of fur knocked into him, jumping right up on his chest before he had a chance to dodge out of the way. He swore, right hand stuck in his pocket as he struggled to catch his fall. There was a thin layer of ice on the ground from an early rain that froze in the cold November temperature, and he just barely managed to get his left hand out to brace his fall, completely forgetting he’d forgotten his gloves.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

A voice called out from in front of him, a figure in a black coat holding a leash grabbing on to the dog before it could lunge at Bucky again. Bucky grimaced, clenching his fist against the ground, ready to snap at the irresponsible owner of the dog as he looked up and--

You held out your hand, eyes full of worry. “Are you okay? She never does this, I don’t know what got into her.”

Bucky blinked, watching your gaze flicker down to his metal hand when he hesitated. But you didn’t pull your own hand away, and he carefully took it, mindful not to grasp too tightly as he pulled himself up.

Your hand lingered in his for a second too long, sliding up his wrist to squeeze his forearm. “Sure you’re okay?”

He didn’t know what the hell was going on. He can’t remember the last time someone treated him like he was... normal. Before the war, at least. If it wasn’t the obvious aversion to his arm, it was his murderous facial expressions that tended to scare people off. He cleared his throat, shaking his head.”Um. Yeah. Uh-- I’m fine.”

You gave him a tentative smile, hand dropping from his arm. “She always walks right beside me without a leash, I don’t know why she jumped on you. You don’t happen to be carrying any dog treats on you?”

Bucky felt himself softly smiling back. “No, more of a cat person.”

“You seem like it.”

He tucked his hands back in his pockets, shrugging. “Are you saying I seem unnecessarily cruel and independent unless hungry?”

You laughed, and the sound made Bucky’s cheeks warm. It was a sound he instantly wanted to hear more of. “A bit? Is this your way of fishing for a dinner date?”

“Oh, uh, no. No, I just--” Bucky looked down, flustered and cursing himself for how lame he sounded. He used to be good at this-- but that was a different lifetime.

But you just knocked your shoulder against his, putting him at ease, again treating his left arm like it was no different from his flesh and blood arm. You grinned. “I’m kidding. Although, my dog did just maul you to the ground, the least I could do was buy you some food. Or a coffee?”

Bucky looked up, your cute head tilt and slight blush confirming that you were, in fact, asking him out.

Just a minute ago, he was contemplating whether Christmas was a pro or a con to be alive for, and here he had a gorgeous girl holding his metal hand like it was nothing and asking him for coffee. Later, he would tell you how close he was to picking death, and how you literally saved his life. Now, he just gave you a smile, a real smile, one he hadn’t had a reason to use in years, and said,

“I’d love that.”

---

That was two years ago. Now, Bucky lived in Brooklyn with you and your dog and Alpine (who reluctantly shared her home with you both if only to appease the man who fed her). And he still wasn’t quite sure if he was strong enough to survive himself.

Because he had everything, he had you. And he was still sitting on the bathroom floor, blood dripping down his shoulder from where he was clawing at where metal met flesh, and wished he no longer existed. Bucky thought of all the violence he has inflicted in his life, none has been as violent as what he has done to himself. Because it had to be, right? How else could it make up for all he did?

You came home from work, letting the dog out and feeding Alpine, going through your usual routine. Bucky had been on an assignment with Natasha and Steve all week, and he usually called before he came home. You were just about to text him and ask how it was going when you noticed the light coming from under the bathroom door.

“Buck? Are you home? Why didn’t you--” you pushed open the door, freezing as you took in the sight beside you. Bucky looked up at you with fear in his eyes, red-rimmed and wet with tears, his right hand shooting up to cover his shoulder. But the blood had trinkled down his chest and caked in his nails-- you knew immediately what he'd been doing.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, dropping to your knees and grabbing his hand, pulling it away from his shoulder to see the damage. It was bad, but at least he didn’t take a knife to it like that time a year ago. You met his eyes, sighing. “Baby, why didn’t you call me?”

“Don’t, please,” he choked out, watching you lean over to grab the first aid kit under the sink and rifling through it for the bandages and antiseptic.

You ignored him, pouring the liquid over his shoulder to get a better look at the injuries without all the blood. There were a few gouges that were still bleeding, but most of it was surface damage. You pulled off your shirt, shaking your head when Bucky whined as you struggled to pull him up.

“Come on, in the shower.”

“No, just leave me--”

“I’m never leaving you!” you snapped, looking him dead in the eye and steeling yourself for a fight. Sometimes it was like this-- arguing over whether to let him suffer alone or let you help, like you could ever just leave him like this. Like you ever stopped thinking about him, could stop loving him. Like you could live without him.

Bucky gave a huff of defeat, letting you pull him to his feet and undressing him the rest of the way, carefully leading him into the shower before following him in. You ran the water as hot as you both could handle, standing under the spray as it washed the blood down his chest and circled pink around the drain.

You wrapped your arms around him, letting him tuck his face into your neck and cry, and stood there until the water ran cold.

---

Afterwards, once you’d washed his hair, bandaged up his shoulder and set him up in bed with a movie, you cuddled up against his left side, pressing soft kisses to the skin above the bandage.

“I wish I could have met you when I was whole.”

Bucky said it so softly, so broken, you squeezed your eyes shut to hold back the flood of pain that brought tears to your eyes. You wished you could take all his hurt into you.

“Bucky,” you hushed, leaning up to meet his eyes, resting your hand on his face to make sure he was paying attention. “You have always been whole to me. And I love you.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d said it, but he still acted like it was. He stared back at you, frowning as he searched your face for a lie, and found none. “Really?”

You nodded, kissing him softly. “I love you.” You pulled back and smiled against his lips. “I love you.” Kissing him again, you whispered, “I love you—“ yelping when he swiftly rolled you onto your back and hovered above you, laughing. You grinned at the beautiful smile on his face; he was incredible, unbelievable. You didn’t understand how you got so lucky.

“I love you.” Bucky kissed you slowly, metal arm holding himself above you as his other hand trailed down your body, hips grinding down against yours. You moaned, back arching to press as much skin to his as possible.

“Bucky,” you panted, raking your nails down his back, avoiding his shoulder. “Need you.”

“My turn to make you feel better.”

—-

It was his birthday. Every year was a reminder of how he wasn’t supposed to be here. A bonus year, he called it. Usually hoping it would be his last.

This one was different. This year, he started to plan for the future; something he never really did until he met you. You asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, and he said he wanted something lowkey. Just his closest friends, the ones who were like family, and you.

You said you’d book a table at your favorite rooftop bar in Manhattan, just a casual thing.

Bucky should have known you’d invite half of the city, instead.

He feigned a smile and tried not to flinch when they jumped out in surprise, Steve at least having the sense to look guilty.

“She planned it, man. Didn’t want you to think we didn’t all love you.”

Bucky just rolled his eyes and slung his arm around your shoulder, already resigned to the night being ruined. But he kissed you sweetly and murmured, “Thank you, babe. I love it.”

“Everyone here is so happy they get you in their life,” you whispered back, resting your forehead against his as you sighed. “Especially me. I can’t wait to celebrate a million more of these.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “God, this serum might just make that possible.”

“If only I’d be so lucky,” you grinned, dragging him along to a table near the edge of the rooftop. “Come here, I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh?” There was a group of people gathered away from the crowd, a man at the center of it laughing. Bucky froze, yanking you back by the hand. “Wait. Is that… you didn’t.”

You shrugged, biting back a smirk. “I did.”

A cousin’s friend’s friend happened to know the publicist for Keith Richards, who was in the city with the Stones for a show later that week. They were Bucky’s favorite band, and he was convinced Keith must have gotten some version of the serum to survive the 80s.

He snapped out of it, turning to you with a huge smile on his face. “I love you.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Go on, fangirl with your favorite person. Happy birthday, baby.”

Bucky shook his head, cupping your face and kissing you hard. You licked into his mouth, moaning softly before remembering where you were, pulling away and feeling yourself blush.

He grinned, kissing you again quickly. “You’re my favorite person. Best gift ever.” He turned and headed towards the group surrounding the rock star, and you made sure no one bothered them for the rest of the night. And you were only slightly jealous.

You didn’t get back home until after 3AM, Bucky going on and on about his conversation with Keith in the cab. You grinned, sitting down on the bed as you slipped off your jacket and dress, leaving them in a pile on the floor to deal with tomorrow.

“So the night was good?”

Bucky sighed, collapsing down beside you. “No, actually. You kinda ruined my birthday.”

You frowned, leaning over and brushing a piece of hair from his temple. “I know you wanted something small, but I thought inviting Keith Richards would be more special—“

“But it was supposed to be just you, me, and our close friends where we went on our first date, so I could ask you something I’ve been preparing for for months,” he explained nonchalantly, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a ring.

You felt your heart drop, staring at the diamond ring in his hand as Bucky slowly slid off the bed and onto one knee, taking your hand. “And now you’re making me do this at 3AM the morning after my birthday, in my stupid bedroom, nothing special at all—“

“James Buchanan Barnes, shut the fuck up,” your whispered, hands shaking as Bucky gave them a squeeze and smiled softly at you, holding up the ring.

“Fine, but one more thing. Will you marry me?”

You felt your vision get blurry, every moment in your relationship replaying in your mind— the first day your met, when he’d been walking in the park deciding whether he should live or die; every night you woke up from his nightmares, holding him until he could breathe again; all the times he tried to hurt himself, all the nights you whispered how much you cared about each other, every time he made you laugh until it hurt and he made love to you like he was worshipping you.

But he was still healing. Every day was a fight against himself. And someday you feared you wouldn’t be there in time. You couldn’t lose him, not as a best friend, not as a boyfriend, not as a husband. “Buck,” you started, voice cracking with emotion. “Promise me. This is for forever, right?”

There was a look in his eye like he knew exactly what you were thinking; and he probably did. He was so good at reading you. It’s why he never doubted your love for him, even if he doubted how much he deserved it every day. But he didn’t take this lightly— truth be told, he’d thought about this from the first month he met you. And he wouldn’t have asked you if he didn’t know it was more than a marriage proposal.

It was him finally deciding once and for all, to live.

“Listen. I love you now. I’m with you now. I’ll do my best, moment to moment, to be here now. That’s all I can promise. That’s all I have.”

You let out a watery laugh, smiling. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Bucky held out the ring again, a worried smile of his own on his face. “So, will you be my wife?”

And despite giving him the best birthday and the worst proposal, he wouldn’t have changed a single thing when you said yes.

#bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fic #bucky x you #james bucky barnes #bucky fanfic

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dreadfutures · 10 months

Text

The Devil.

The vallaslin were chains, once, after all.

Halevune Mahariel | Hero of Ferelden

Details and process gif (x). Full version (x). Symbolism below.

The Devil. (x)

When the Devil card appears in a reading it usually shows that you are not in control of your life, sometimes as a result of your own actions, but more often as a byproduct of inaction. This loss of control often leads to loss of hope, and a lack of faith in your own abilities.

Your own mindset is a critical factor when the Devil card appears. If you think darkness has won, it has. If you are willing to let others exploit and restrain you, then they can and they will. But no one has power over you unless you give it away. If you are willing to release yourself from the chains of ignorance, you can do so, and you can step into the light. See how much you can accomplish when you believe you can.

UPRIGHT: shadow self, attachment, addiction, restriction, sexuality

REVERSED: releasing limiting beliefs, exploring dark thoughts, detachmen

Halevune Mahariel is not dead, but sometimes he thinks the world wants him to be.

From granting self-governance to the Denerim alienage to giving the Dalish their own land in Fereldan to becoming Teyrn of Gwaren himself, you'd think Halevune Mahariel's legacy would be unforgettable--the changes he's made, irrevocable.

And yet they are being forgotten, and undone, even a mere year after the Blight. His friend, now-King Alistair, made promises about protecting the fledgling alienage, about making reparations for Loghain selling them into slavery...and yet they seem to be empty promises.

As the world grinds its heel into elves across Ferelden, and then mages everywhere, Despair eats at Halevune just as the Taint in his blood eats at him. All Hal can see are his failures, the evils of the world. All he can feel is the weight of his losses: his clan, his youth, his legacy...and soon, his family. He can hear the Calling coming for him in his dreams, and all he wants to do is spend time with his young son and his bond mate, Morrigan.

Halevune can no longer see the light. He is being held back by the chains of his past, by the fear of death, and by a Despair of his own making.

For Hal must remember... The world will never change if he stops trying.

The Vallaslin - Falon'Din is the God of Death in Hal's culture, and Hal is now keenly aware of his mortality as a Warden who underwent the Joining after already being infected for a while. His time is limited on this plane, and he is haunted by the marks that he wears on his face for that reason. But one day he will also learn the truth of Falon'Din and the Evanuris, and Despair for another reason.

The Raven Feather - Represents Morrigan and Kieran, the only lights in his life. They are the torch, temptation, for him to abandon his duties and responsibilities. All he wants is to go to them, and spend his limited time with them.

But...

The Cobwebs - Hal is already dead, dying, decaying, forgotten. Ferelden would relegate him to a historical figure if they could. The common folk are tired of his empty promises and his failures to secure change for them or protect them, now that the Blight is over. And the nobles are tired of him trying.

The Hands - Hal's clan is dead, and many others are dead, since he became a Warden. He has no one to rely on, no one to go back to. Only ghosts. Hal feels like he is alone in the world besides Morrigan and Kieran, though he does have friends. He just can't see them through his anger and despair.

#dragon age tarot #oc tarot #mahariel #warden #dao #dragon age origins #halevune mahariel #my art #holy fuck i did this in like. 10 hours.#after a bad day in lab.#the hyperfixation was real #the LEVEL UP was real #fuck it's 2am #fuckkkk #but i'm so proud of this one sec let me set up the detail post lol #i'll upload the full size to deviantart #after sleeping

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helyiios · 16 days

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Imagine Ethan having a really graphic and realistic dream about Benji dying, and that dream being the thing that finally makes him confess his feelings for Benji.

Benji was not screaming. And, that being said, he’s not sure what’s worse. Benji’s perfectly quiet, but his eyes are wide. They’re pleading.

He’s hung around a rope, a rope with small rusty nails, and they’re digging deep into his skin, and he’s not even screaming.

Ethan’s watching, kept inside a glass box, similar to the one they’d trapped Lane in, and he’s punching the walls, trying his upmost best to do something, to fight back, he’s yelling at Benji, Benji whose hands are gripping the rope and trying to tear it away, Benji whose wide and clear eyes are scarred with tears, Benji who’s crying so hard he’s perfectly silent.

The nails dig deeper, and the flesh around his neck is more red than his usual light beige, and his hands are covered in warm blood, and Ethan’s still screaming, begging the gods above to put him through it instead of his friend, his wonderful friend who did not deserve this.

“I’m sorry,” he’s barking at him, “I’m sorry, Benji I’m coming ! Just hold on ! Hold on for a bit more, I’ll definitely save you !”

The other man keeps looking at him, wide eyes desperate, and it comes to light that Ethan wasn’t leaving that glass box. He couldn’t.

He was stuck there. Made to watch Benji struggle to breathe, covering himself in thick red blood, sweat and tears dripping down his face, and he feels sick.

Just like Lindsay. Just like Julia.

They took everything from him.

They’re—

He roars in pain, begging to the nothingness to let Benji go, they’re taking him away from him !

It can’t…they can’t do that, he thinks, and now he’s crying too. They can’t just take Benji away from him.

Please, he pleads. Please. Anything, anyone but him.

Anyone.

Benji’s face’s constricting, and with a final tensing of his body, his hands drop to his sides.

He’s not moving anymore, Ethan realises.

He bangs on the glass harder, blows his knuckles up, there’s torn flesh and blood, and he’s screaming.

Benji’s perfectly still, head hung low.

Dead.

No.

No, please.

Please, don’t do this to—

“ETHAN !”

He jolts awake, swallowing back a scream of surprise. Benji’s staring at him like he’d grown a second head, his computer long forgotten on the bed next to him.

“Wh…”

“You good, buddy ?” Benji asks, walking up to him surprisedly, “you were having a nightmare, I think.”

Was I ?

“I was ?”

“You were mumbling something, huh, and my name. Didn’t sound too pleasant.”

“I…” Ethan blinks stupidly, taking in his friend’s body. The long curls falling idly on his forehead, the well trimmed beard, the wounds on his face, and the year old hypertrophic scars like a necklace around his neck. “Benji.”

“Yeah, Benji,” his friends chuckles, sitting next to him. “You alright ?”

He shakes his head no, and that makes the other man furrow his head in surprise.

“So, nightmare I take it ?”

“You…were in it,” Ethan difficultly admits. “You were—you were hanging from a rope.”

“Ain’t that familiar,” Benji laughs airily, but upon seeing Ethan’s decomposed face, he grimaces. “Sorry.”

“There were nails on that rope. And you were bleeding, I was stuck—stuck in a box. Looking at you.”

“Like the Lane box ?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, E,” Benji gently says, boldly tucking a hair strand behind the other’s ear. “It must’ve been a hard watch.”

“I watched you die,” Ethan replies, and the way his voice wobbles is a clear indication he was really close to tears. “I thought—I watched you die, Benji.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “but I’m okay. Yeah ? I’m tougher than I look,” he smiles. “And I—“

His voice dies down as Ethan grasps him, bringing him into a tight hug, his head tucked in the crook of the other’s neck.

“Don’t die on me,” he begs, “don’t die.”

“I’m not going to die,” Benji whispers, running a hand through the other’s longer hair, “I’m here, yeah ?”

“If you die,” Ethan chokes out, hot tears pouring from his eyes, “I can’t do it.”

“That’s a bit hyperbolic. I’m sure you could.”

“But I don’t want to. I want you. You to be with me. I…”

“You’re under shock,” his friend coos, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m saying !” Ethan protests, pulling back to stare at the other. “I can’t lose you, Benji. Not now, not ever. You’re my other half.”

“You’re not losing me,” Benji croaks out, feeling his own tears puddle up in his eyes, throat tight. “Never. Yeah ?”

“Okay.”

They stay like this for a few minutes more, until Benji exhales, tracing circles on his friend’s back.

“Are you feeling better ?”

“I think so,” Ethan shyly nods. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, it’s okay.”

“I meant it, you know,” he adds, looking at him bravely. “About you. Us.”

Benji’s lips are a perfectly thin line, and he’s staring at his shoes.

“Did you ?”

“Yeah.”

“For the record,” the younger man says, finally looking back at him, “I think you’re my other part, too.”

Ethan finally smiles.

When they kiss, it tastes like love.

#mission impossible #mission impossible fic #ask #snovyda #benji dunn #ethan hunt #benthan

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ghostselkie · 2 months

Text

So an idea for a nevermore au literally came to me in a dream

I had this weird dream where Lenore was the apprentice to a death god, but like it was angsty cause like she didn't really want to be. Look it was a dream and that's all I remember.

So here are nearly all the thoughts that came from that.

Warning: This gets heavy. Death is talked about extensively and suicide is mentioned. If you are not in a headspace to read about that, please come back another time.

Then I woke up and realized there was something to that idea. So in this au Death would sometimes yoink humans who they think would be good for the job, the reason being that it can be easier for dying and dead humans to interact with an entity that was once human. Death typically appears during mass casualty events, or when a human would need their presence, or when they want to make a human psychopomp. As for the humans Death makes psychopomps, they are typically people who delt with death regularly, and/or people that have the right personality. Lenore is the latter.

Now typically dead people get to choose weather they stay as a ghost, reincarnate immediately, or be a ghost for a little while and reincarnate a bit later. If Death wants you to be a psychopomp, there is no getting out of it.

So, basically the whole dying on their wedding day happens to Lenore and Annabel. Lenore becomes a psychopomp, and Annabel reincarnates. The au would be set in the modern day and psychopomp!Lenore and Annabel would meet. Now I think psychopomps can have a corporeal form, and while people can of course see them, not many people can register them. And if they do get noticed, they are quickly forgotten about. Now some people can notice them more easily, these tend to be old and/or terminally ill people, those who are close to death. So imagen Lenore's surprise when Annabel, some one who is young, not only notices, but starts talking to Lenore. Now normally, for a young person who doesn't give of terminally ill vibes, them talking to a psychopomp is a really bad sign. The reason Annabel actually registers Lenore's existence is because of soulmate shenanigans, and because Lenore deals with souls on a daily basis, she quickly figures this out.

I'm thinking Prospero and Eulalie could also be psychopomps. Prospero cause he was a doctor and saw a lot of death, he knows how to deal with it. And Eulalie because Eulalie.

Now the thing is, psychopomps aren't quite human any more. On top of being immortal, what happens when a human soul becomes a psychopomp is that death gives this person a portion of their power. Now, psychopomps don't govern death, they just guide people through it, but with the line of work (and a portion of deaths power) their view on life and death shifts. Death is the great equalizer, and as Death's guides, they have to be impartial, it doesn't matter where the person came from or what they did, they are dead now and have to be treated with compassion. So all psychopomps end up being very compassionate towards all humans.

They don't need to breath, drink, eat, or sleep either. In fact most of those are uncomfortable, or just inconvenient for them. With food and drink, they can chew and swallow, but nothing else will happen, and if they teleport, or go incorporeal, everything will just fall to the ground; it's gross. As for sleeping, well basically what happens when some one dies and a psychopomp is needed, they get this feeling that they need to be some where. If they take to long doing whatever, they teleport automatically, cause like trying to resist the call is so spiritually uncomfortable for them. So like imagen your taking a nice nap, then you get woken up cause you have to go to work, but you feel like you're dying backwards cause the nap was really good, but now you have to provide a dead person therapy while really groggy.

Also, the not knowing when and where you have to be until you're needed is the reason they don't often have sex with mortals. Like ghosts understand the job of the psychopomp, and don't take them having to leave personally. But like with mortals, a psychopomp can't explane to them why they need to leave, and said mortal would absolutely take it personally. Typically this isn't a problem, as psychopomps don't have much of sex drive to begin with (that comes with the whole being dead thing, also they can still be attracted to people, this isn't vtm), and if they did want to, it would just be with a ghost for the reason above. Occasionally though, soulmate shenanigans will happen, and the psychopomp's soulmate will be alive. The sexual tension between them will be palpable.

Now on to why there are multiple psychopomps. Well first of all, unlike death, psychopomps aren't omnipresent. And while death cares deeply for humans, they are also acutely aware that their presence isn't the beast for recently dead humans, due how fundamentally inhuman death is. So, death created psychopomps, entities that where once human that could more effectively guide people through death. Yeah, psychopomps are basically glorified therapists for dead people. Another reason is that certain psychopomps are better for dealing with certain dead people than others would be. For instance, Prospero tends to deal with people who were terminally ill, people who die in hospitals, and people who died because of medical malpractice. Eulalie tends to deal with dead kids, and people who burned to death. Lenore tends to deal with people who died in accidents, people who were murdered, and people who lost the battle with their mental health. Essentially, psychopomps help those who they would be good at dealing with based on the events of their life and how they died. Also language barriers still exist for dead people, psychopomps just cant magically communicate with everyone. World building notes:

A psychopomp's corporeal form only creates the illusion of life, and it's not quite exact, as something with a portion of death's power can never perfectly mimic life. Their body temperature is a bit colder than normal, though, buy itself, not low enough to raise any alarm bells. It tends to hover around 95.1-96.9° F (35-36° C). Their heart beat is also slower than average, not enough to be life threatening though. Their heart rate can speed up, to make the illusion more convincing, but it never gets above 100bpm . Also because they don't need to breath, they don't get winded. They just breath to keep up appearances.

Important to note that electronics can pick up psychopomps in their corporeal form, though the mimetic effect they have on humans does extend through the video. Though still they have to be wary of cameras.

When incorporeal, they can float around and faze through walls like ghosts can. They can also teleport in this form.

They also have the power to manifest peoples memories. It's mostly used as a way to give comfort people who have just died. So like for a smoker they could manifest cigarettes. For a kid, a security blanket. For an autistic person, a favorite sensory toy, or maybe a weighted blanket. Basically, they can manifest anything that could comfort a dead person as long as that person has a memory of it. (for Annabel it would be tea) Now, psychopomps don't really use this any thing other than comforting the dead, however when Annabel starts interacting with Lenore, she starts getting memories of her past life.

Psychopomps have sort of a 6th sense when it comes to death. Like they can sense how close some one is to dying. The older they get the more exact this becomes. Also they can just generally feel when things die.

Because of this the typical psychopomp things aren't all they do. Like if they see some one who they feel is close to death, they will try to help, in any way that they are aloud to, such as calling 911, or talking some on down, and if they can't do any thing, they'll just sit with that person so they don't have to die alone. The reason being, everyone will die eventually, why not give them a little extra time. This is why they have corporeal forms, to comfort the dying.

Also almost no psychopomp has a phone, car, house, money, or really anything you need to live as a human, but like its not like they need it. Plus they can't get a job because they don't legally exist. Usually, the most they'll have is an email.

psychopomps can hop in and out of the afterlife at will, they can also teach ghosts how to.

oh yeah, the afterlife is really just a place for ghosts to hang out and vibe when they are not doing ghost shit, and it's also like a "break" room for psychopomps. A break from having to deal mortals, not a break from their job. They are on call 24/7/365. Death doesn't sleep and neither do they.

The afterlife is a combination of human memories of the living world and humanities collective unconsciousness of what the afterlife is like.

Ghost's can't take a corporeal form.

Also, since both Theo and Lenore are dead in this au they can interact with each other. So, like Theo (and Lenore's ghost friends) will sometimes fallow her around while she's in her corporeal form and do silly ghost shit that only she (and other psychopomps) can see. Though some times Lenore will want to join in on the conversation, so she has to find a privet place to go incorporeal. Yes, the memetic effect psychopomps have on humans helps them not get noticed, if something happens, or they do something that would draw attention to them, like Lenore talking to talking to people that "aren't there," or straight up disappearing, humans will notice.

I'm calling this my psychopomp!Lenore au.

#nevermore webtoon #lenore nevermore #annabel lee nevermore #annabel lee x lenore #white raven #lenore vandernacht #psychopomp!Lenore au

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klbwriting · 2 months

Text

Not Romeo, Not Juliet

Chapter 5: Dear Friend

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

Warnings: violence, blood, stitches

Summary: Jason tries to take on more guys than he can handle and ends up bloody at YN's work

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. -Sonnet 30

Turns out five mobsters with pipes, was too many to beat up, even when you were once Robin. Jason hadn't gotten beat like this since he died and he was lucky they thought he was dead or he may have been back in the ground again, and he was pretty sure Dick wasn't going to pull him after these antics. He was supposed to be at home this Friday night while Dick attended some policeman's gala with Barbara, but no. Jason had decided to head to Crime Alley, see if he could help anyone. He didn't want to protect all of Gotham this time around, he wasn't fooled by Bruce's lofty promises of making a difference in this city, but he wanted to help this little piece of it, a piece that even Batman seemed to have forgotten. That was how he found himself facing down five of Sal Maroni's biggest minions.

They had been finishing taking protection money from a bodega down the street from his old apartment, leaving the shop with the bag full of money like they were in a 1950's mob movie when Jason had dropped in front of them, masked up and ready to fight. He got several good shots in on the large men, taking two of them down with broken femurs, but then one got behind him and walloped him in the shoulder blades with the pipe, then another got him in the face, cracking the mask and lacerating his cheek pretty bad. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as the third one still standing cracked the back of his head, taking him down to the ground. He wanted to get up, but flashbacks of getting up and then being beaten back down with a crowbar came to mind and he felt a panic attack coming on. The mobsters apparently thought it was the breathing of a dying man and took their injured buddies and ran. Jason lay on the street, hyperventilating, trying to bring himself out of his panicked stupor, for almost an hour. He stood, discarding the broken mask in a random dumpster before limping off, trying to figure out a place to go.

Turns out he would be found before he could think of someplace. He didn't even realize he was walking past Big Belly Burger until the door opened and he heard the most angelic sound in the history of the earth.

"Jason?" YN said from the doorway of the dimmed restaurant. He turned, looking at her with glassy eyes. He saw her eyes get wide and her mouth fell open in shock at what was probably a horrifying appearance. He knew his cheek was still leaking blood, probably needed stitches, and his head was killing him. Despite him looking like the last person you would want to invite into a place that served food YN came over, grabbing him under the arm and helping him inside. Once she had him seat at one of the tables she locked the doors again, and lowered the blinds for good measure. "Wait here, we have first aid supplies in the back." He watched her hurry off and managed to get half his mouth up in a pained smile. She was helping him again, God she was so nice.

"Thank you..." he managed out when she got back with a full tackle box of medical supplies. The voice sounded watery and the terrified look on her face tol him his mouth was probably leaking blood. She took a breath and got out some disinfectant and a needle and thread.

"Don't talk, I'm going to need to stitch your cheek, but honestly I have no idea how so this is going to be a huge botch and it will scar, is that ok with you?" she asked. Jason didn't see how he had any other choice, and honestly, he kind of missed having some scars. He nodded. "Do you need something to bite down on or anything?" He chuckled and winced. She wasn't taking a limb, but he appreciated her concerned none the less.

"Just do it," he said softly. She gave him a look that said 'I told you to shut up', before starting to sew him back together. It took a long time and he spent it watching her face. Her eyes concentrated, she was taking deep breaths in between humming various songs that he couldn't identify. He could see the storm behind the calm in her eyes, she was hanging on by a thread at the moment, hoping she wasn't fucking his face up for life. When she finally finished she put the extra thread and the needle down on the table and Jason saw tears start streaming from her eyes as she looked at her bloodied hands.

"I should get you cleaned up..." she said softly, ignoring the torrent running down her face as she helped him stand and walk to the small bathroom. She found some paper towels, wetting them and gently wiping at the blood drying on his face, making sure not to tear the fresh stitches. Then she looked at her hands, and his. Jason saw her hands shaking, all the worry and fear that came with someone showing up at your door bloody crashing down on her. He gently took her hands and washed them for her, getting every smear of blood off of them before he washed his own. He looked in the mirror then, finally seeing how bad the cut was. It was from the middle of his cheek all the way past the top of his ear, almost to the back of his head. He caught sight of YN behind him, looking at him in the mirror. He turned, not sure how else to express his thanks, so he hugged her, making sure his new wound was away from her face. She hugged him back, clinging to him.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he whispered, being very careful move his mouth only a little. She nodded into his chest. "Do you happen to have pain pills in that med kit?"

"Ya, come on, I should probably watch you for a couple hours too, make sure you don't fall asleep with that concussion," she said softly. Jason shook his head. "What isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"No, if someone gets a concussion they can sleep, you just need to wake them up every so often, make sure they can answer questions," he said. She nodded as they sat down in a booth, him leaning his head against a pillar as she got him some pills and water. He took them, hoping the pain would ease soon, it was pounding in his head and face.

"Alright, so let me ask some questions then," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. He nodded, fair enough she would want to know why he had shown up bloody as fuck at her work when he lived all the way across the river. "What is your full name?"

"Jason Peter Todd," he answered easily. She nodded.

"Whens your birthday?"

"August 16th," he answered, then made a face. Was that still his birthday? Technically he had been pulled out of the pit, alive on June 12th, so what August still it? She made a face at him.

"Should we got to a hospital? Did you forget your birthday?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No, no, just realized that this year no one actually said happy birthday to me, wondering if it still counts," he said. Dick had forgotten until a week later. Jason did have to say, at least Alfred always had a cake for him to eat for breakfast on his birthday, he missed those cakes. He must have looked sad because he felt a hand on his.

"Why are you in Crime Alley again?" she asked. He sighed, she really just did not believe that he had lived here.

"For the third time, I lived here until I was 10, then I was adopted by a rich guy who had a penchant for charity cases," he explained. She asked what happened to his parents and he sighed. "My dad disappeared, could be dead for all I know, and probably is. He owed a lot of people money. And my mom was an addict, she OD'd and then I was on the street for a bit before my adoptive father found me."

"Do you live in Bludhaven with him?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No, we had a falling out last year, so I moved in with my older brother, his other adopted son," he said. She frowned. "What?"

"Are you Bruce Wayne's kid?" she asked. He sighed and nodded. "I can understand you falling out with him. He came to Gotham Academy once for a fundraiser thing and he was so rude, flashing cash everywhere, making a big scene and getting trashed. You are probably better off with your brother." Jason chuckled. Bruce had probably needed a cover story that night to explain where he was while Batman was out doing something. Dick had probably been in the suit that night. "Ok, so you grew up here, prove it, tell me something about Crime Alley only we locals know." Jason wracked his brain and then pulled out a memory he thought he had long wiped clean from his mind.

"The playground," he said. Her eyebrows rose at this statement. "The playground in the basement of the old mattress store. No one know who decided to put a playground down there, but I used to go there all the time as a kid when my mom was zoned out and my dad was off gambling. We all kept it secret from outsiders so that the cops wouldn't come and tear it down." She nodded.

"Ok, maybe you did grow up here," she said. "Where was that?" He wanted to say 'in your building' but she didn't know he had followed her home like an absolute creep that night so he told her where the address was, pretending to be surprised when she told him she lived there now. "So how did you end up with the bloody face?"

"I am trying to help out, I saw some of Sal Maroni's guys terrorizing a bodega, thought I could take'em, make'em give the money back to the owner," he said. She froze for just a moment and he thought maybe she knew the antics of those gangsters. "I just want this place to be safer for you." He didn't realize that was truly what was at the heart of this whole thing. Ever since he met her he had wanted to protect her, make sure she was safe no matter where she was.

"Jason, don't go getting yourself killed just to try and protect me," she whispered. He looked at her. He would die a thousand times to protect her. He gently took her hand and squeezed it. "Here, I really need to clean up this place and get home, give me your number, let's meet at the playground, run some lines or something, I'm sure you need help being a tortured Prince." Jason chuckled, she was wrong about that, he had no trouble being insane and seeing ghosts, was kind of his MO at this point, but they exchanged numbers and he helped her clean up the place, disinfecting everything before he went back home.

Dick had been pissed but Jason had lied and said the cut was from a fight at school, some jocks jumping him on his way home. He said he did the stitching himself, even though his stitches would have been perfect, he still got away with it saying he couldn't really remember how to do it right after the pit. Turns out being dead for awhile is a great excuse. Dick didn't quite believe him but just sent him to bed. When he got up to the loft and checked his phone there was already a text from YN.

Playground, Sunday, 8pm, I want to check your stitches, bring Hamlet and a skull

#jasontodd #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #redhood #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #notromeo

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ceralmillkandstars · 1 year

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a beautiful ring pt 2 (namor x siren!reader)

excerpt: 500 year old god and a young, enchanting mermaid who acts like an absolute gremlin- she refuses to act any different in front of the man who could slice her in half. and he’s absolutely enamored by it.

welcome to part two :) thank yew for all of the support i’ve gotten from you guys so far. def slowly but surely buildin up here. part three is in da works as we speak, praying for some smoochy time cuz smut is my fav thing to write.

here we goooooo

You were raised to love the sea, but your home was the surface.

And by the gods did you need a shower.

Your back was sore, your hair stiff from the sea salt, and the slowly dying adrenaline rush was leaving your eyes droopy and body hunched over. Flying back to Chicago in the dead of night after returning from East Hampton’s beach killed you, your victory of stealing from a god seems meaningless when there is no more energy left to boost your own ego.

You found yourself surprised when you made it to your condo's doorsteps in downtown Chicago safely, in awe that you were just that good. Winding the prize out of your pocket, you gingerly look it over before laying it on your vanity desk, giving yourself a once over in the mirror after you beelined towards your room.

The east coast truly brought out the freckles under your eyes. You glowed, blowing yourself a kiss before trudging into the bathroom. Inhaling the crushed eucalyptus leaves affixed by twine atop of your shower head, you turn the knob as hot as you can stand, beginning to strip from the salty slip dress and undergarments.

A melody begins to hum from your lips, effortlessly wrapping yourself in a protective transfixion as you step into the shower. A groan mixing in with the angelic sound emits from you while the steaming water droplets pelt your back. You lean your head back, running your now goldless, godless fingers through your hair, gingerly tending to your scalp with lavender shampoo and tea tree oil.

You don’t quite know what you are, but you are too unique, too important, to not nourish.

Twirling your conditioner-soaked hair into a clip, you lather yourself with similarly smelling soap that reminds you of the tide pool you once bathed in as a girl, singing hymns that reminded you of the ocean floor you visited today. Twisting and swaying your hips to the song, you let the water turn ice cold once you cleaned yourself sparkling, your hair soft and relaxed, ready to be brushed and braided for the night. The frozen pellets encourage your fears, your inhibitions, the fear that you might have not been forgotten, swirl down the drain, the song coming to an end as you turn the dial off.

Lavender lotion, face oil, floral spaghetti strap and matching undies, french braids with rosemary elixir being soaked by your scalp- the perfect night.

Pizza would make it better, though.

You plop yourself on the bed, back on the mattress, legs raised and pointed towards the air as you dig for your phone to dial whichever place had stuffed crust and pineapple.

You are not alone, the moon murmurs to you, allowing a black sludge of dread to pool within you. Your body jerks up, and you cross your arms over your chest. Eyebrows furrowing and lips jutted, you scan your room.

My kitchen, my kitchen.

Who is in my kitchen?

If another absolutely rancid, stupid boy who couldn’t take the hint and throw away your condo key (you’d never admit that was your fault), you were drowning them. Even if you had to hull their unconscious bodies to Chicago’s murky waters to do so. Even if that’s never happened before.

That’s never happened before.

With a paling face, you slide off the bed and storm into the kitchen. Sometimes, you prayed that the moon would foretell you important information before such an event occurred.

“Listen, Chad, or Jason, or Elijah, who-fucking-ever, if someone ghosts you and doesn’t call you back that doesn’t give you authority to come into their home even if you have a key. I’m going to count to ten before I lay you flat on that countertop and remove your most important ligaments from your body because I am just so fucking tired- oh..”

Your fears did not travel too far down the drain while you showered. Your protection hum was not enough. In fact, the unease of being out of control slithered back up and wrapped itself like a serpent around your neck in a chokehold, for the moon did not whisper to you soon enough that he had followed you back home.

Your protection song was not enough. Usually, something so simple would cause an intruder to burst into a billion water droplets. Usually, you would have just come into the kitchen to discover a puddle and smile to yourself knowing that an idiot got what was coming to them. You did not need the moon to warn you of robbers, of shallow one night stands who can’t get enough of your hypnotic stares, of anyone coming into your home without permission.

And yet, this god stands in your kitchen, seemingly perplexed by your adornment of antique plates and cups poorly stacked in the open cabinets, not one of them the same. His fingers trace along adjacent jars, reading to himself each herb and spice labeled and put away on the wood shelf. You mirror his annoyed expression as his eyes wander near the sink, finding a ripped open, half eaten, chocolate bar.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” you murmur, taking soft steps towards the barrier of your kitchen. You find your fingers smoothing down the base of your floral tank top, giving an angsty stare towards the pair of matching panties acting as a second skin.

Well, at least it didn’t look like you were lying.

He did not change, his gold armor tightly affixed to his shoulders, spear tightly bound in his hands. The large, gold-plated necklace and larger than life pearls, other finely varnished necklaces stack upon one another and his curly, damp, yet neatly toppled hair with those earrings had your cheeks heating.

Very rarely does one of your stature, your nature, become seduced themselves.

Or so the moon tells you.

“Do those earrings hurt from wearing them all day, or does swimming in the water help with the weight distribution?” You blurt, cheeks red, back straight.

The god simply turns, giving you a slow once over. Quiet rage, curiosity swims in his eyes, a deadly demeanor flowing from him to you, you to him.

Exposing pajamas and random questions being unanswered won’t stop you from making his atoms implode with a whisper, for disrespect is a sour taste on your tongue.

Could you even kill him? Leave a scratch on his cheek?

Internally, you scoff. You won’t kill a god. You might steal from one, but it would be purely selfish of you to kill this man. The moon has whispered secrets of an underground world since you were a child wishing to sleep sooner, and it would be against your very nature to slaughter the man who leads a dream world.

So you continue on, filling in the bloodless silence as he turns to your dining table, “I like how you wear your oceanic garb on the surface. I think it’s neat.”

Is he going to take the ring back? Kill you? I mean, if you were him, you’d kill you if caught. Maybe you should go get it.

“I will not conform myself to the surface when I step foot onto this land.” The silky, calculated, deliberate cool tone reverberates around your home, the tranquil atmosphere melding into an eerie fog.

You pucker your lips, nodding.

The moon must be humored by your calmness before the very man whose spear could impale you before you could send another twinkle. Or horrified. Her daughter lackadaisical, wearing floral panties and a small, matching top in front of the serpent god.

He stares at you for a second longer, his eyes melting any confidence, any tranquility left in your body. A small girl with a knack for pretty things quivers before the god.

“I have heard rumors of the ones who are creatures of the sea. The creatures that can return to the surface world if they wish, full-bodied at their will. The creatures who can manipulate, who could conquer the world at their whim-”

“The moon does not wish me to conquer,” you bite, chin upturning. You turn, beginning to move towards your room. If you’re going to be interrogated, it better be with pizza.

A gasp pelts from you as his spear shoots out in front of you in a swift, presiding motion. The sharp metal kisses your cheek, the flesh of it nearly missing being sheered off.

Whiplash consumes you as you turn towards the god, face shot.

You guess it’s not the right time for pizza.

“The moon?” He quizzes, eyes narrowing, utterly fixated upon you. He observes as your chest heaves, your wide eyes staring down his spear, watching as you fight between looking at his face and that skillfully crafted weapon. There hasn’t been this powerful of a man so close to you before.

You gulp, nodding, wishing you could straighten your back, turn up your chin, more,“Yes, the moon.”

The spear slaps back to his side, and he moves away from you, continuing to contemplate your home. Your living room, your dining table, the half eaten dark chocolate bar sitting on the counter from the other night. Flowery, ethereal, a little messy. You strived to bring as much essence with you to the surface world as you could, finding incandescence in each piece you brought back to your condo. Stolen or not is long forgotten by now, all you know is that this is your home.

A god is looking around your home. Cheeks heated, you pray to the Mother to take the embarrassment and hope he is even the slightest bit impressed.

He strides towards the velvet couch, and you cringe as he sits. It’s unearthly to witness a sea god attempting to relax into your couch. It seems he feels the same way, unable to sit in an indestructible way, so he settles for resting his elbows on his knees, gazing up at you.

“Do you have velvet couches at home?”

It is not a request when he states, “tell me about your moon.’

“It is not my moon,” you begin, tiptoeing towards the adjacent couch. You grab a small throw pillow, shielding your peaking, freckled stomach as you sit down. Any wrong moves, any innuendos you’d fight him in your apartment would mean slaughter. The moon warns you of this as you cross your legs and force yourself to face the god. “She is simply the moon. She holds the energy to the waters, and water is within us all- no matter the level. I serve her and her me.”

His gaze gives away he is not satisfied with this information, and you shrug your shoulders. There is little information you wish to give away tonight, your growling stomach and fluttering eyes urging you to find a way to end this conversation and get this man on his way.

“What more is there to know?” What a teasing answer, and his brows rise in the slightest. You’re both struggling to keep your composure, this god used to his world bending to his will and your sleepy, angry hunger fueling whatever delinquency was about to arise.

“How do you serve her?” You nearly groan at that demanding tone, it’s what- midnight? There’s no food, emphasis on no food, in your stomach and you wish to curl under your freshly washed winter duvet to borrow away until the upcoming afternoon instead of being questioned right now.

“I am tired,” you feebly admit, voice soft like silk and edged glass. A fine balance for a soon-to-be tantruming moon child. You prayed to her to not let him see you act a fool after stealing his ring.

A fine price to pay for not being powerful enough. “Can we continue this conversation another time? You know where I live. I just want some pizza- what? Pizza is good.”

You nearly scoff at his grimacing complexion. Slowly deteriorating, your once gentle, feline gaze began to melt into a matching stare as he replied.

“The surface world food is vile.”

“Have you ever had stuffed crust pizza?” Gods, arguing was going to get you nowhere. What can you do to get this god to leave?

He is not leaving, child.

“How do you serve the moon?” He repeats, straightening his back.

He just won’t quit. You ponder how it turns out for someone to push his button; a fire ignites in your stomach at the thought.

“I’m in my undies right now, I’m hungry, I am exhausted, and I don’t even know who you are. Come back in the morning once I’ve eaten my vile food,” you spit, “and I’ll think about telling you all my cute little secrets.”

Incredulously, his mouth gapes open in the slightest before standing up, bolting to tower over you faster than you can recalibrate yourself. Before your gaze can linger on his thighs for more than a moment's notice, you find a tight grip on your jaw, cheeks squishing and your lips pursed in the slightest. Dread consumes you, and you feel the moon shake her head.

“You dare,” he begins, staring down at you as if you were less than the scum under his feet, “speak to me like this as if you did not steal what does not belong to you in the first place- siren.” You return the fever, glaring back at him, clenching the chair’s cushioning and pushing yourself to meet his face with yours.

“It was pretty,” you seethe, “and I am not a siren.”

He tuts, clenching your jaw harder between his thumb and forefinger, twisting your neck as though you were the ring you plucked from him in the ocean, “Little surface girls taking things that do not belong to them, claiming they belong to the moon.”

Mother forgive me, you silently beg, the rage allowing one last particle of energy to surface. You let yourself blow out a soft sigh that you hope, you pray, feels like peppering kisses all over his face and neck.

Peppering kisses turn into boiling beads of sweat pilling along his temples in mere seconds, your silent will urging his blood to cook beneath you. Boiling blood and a dark, unearthed lust surfacing in the form of a longing gaze and heated skin. His grip molding soft, lips parting.

“Return tomorrow, and I will answer your questions,” whatever sultry notes left in your voice bellow in his stomach, your eyes hooded, skin glowing as you summon the moonlight to cast against your goose bumped skin.

Bend to me by the order of the moon, bend to me and go home.

He longingly looks over your moon-kissed cheeks between his hand, down to your collar bones, the dip of your chest begging to pour out of your small tank top, tracing your navel with his eyes and they linger on the embroidered panties, your throw pillow long gone on the floor once you sat up fully to fight for yourself- for your pizza- tonight.

But because the way he was returning your devilish look, you might not be hungry for just pizza.

Bend to my will, sweet king. Let me continue my night, you may question me in the morning.

And then he has the audacity to reel back and laugh, letting you jerk away at the expense of your own mortification.

Heaven forbid, it didn’t work.

Dark red embellishes your cheeks, your nose, your neck and chest. Blotchy.

Your cooler hands find your cheeks, urging them to quiet, and you curl back into your chair. Looking down at your newly polished toes and back up towards him with pure fury, you couldn’t feel more humiliated.

The moon did not let you win.

There is no victory, no satisfaction when you are angry, she murmurs, synchronizing the gods movements as he lifts your chin again. It is gentle, testing. You are met with a curious, cautious, nevertheless impenetrable stare. His eyes travel between your cheeks, watering eyes, your pink, pouty lips.

“I will return in the morning, when the sun rises.” He promises with a nod, “hopefully you will be as enchanting as you are described in the books with a full stomach and long nights rest.” There is a soft laugh, the god not yet letting go of your face, observing the pink splotches of shame along your neck. “I did not think the definition of moon children would be so literal.”

You could not manipulate this man, and he is calling you a child.

You are too angry, too tired, too defeated to rebuttal that you are the goddess, the justice, the love and power of the moon.

He did not ask for his ring back when he let go of your face, gathered his spear, and took flight from your open balcony window, giving you another short, determined once over.

A loud groan escapes you as the transparent, pink-hued curtains sway with the wind.

You want to chuck that ring out of that very window, you decide.

Before you went to bed, you ate a whole box of stuffed crust pizza.

He kept his promise.

After failing to have a good night’s rest, tossing and turning, waking with cold sweats and dreams of cascading down a rabbit hole, you understand why your sleep was disrupted in the early morning.

There he sat, across from your bed in another lounge chair seemingly miniature while he shuffles about. He twirls one of your small shell in his hand, and it seems as though he took a good chunk of time out of his night to look through nearly all of your trinkets.

You sigh and roll over in your bed away from the man in the chair, pulling the duvet over your head. A groan reverberates through the sheets when you shove your face into the surface of the mattress.

This is not how you imagined your morning after East Hampton. You allow yourself to daydream for a moment, pretending you wake in the sun alone, stretch, cum with one of your previous vibrators, and make an omelet with the mushrooms you got from the market just the other day. Cheese and mushrooms and eggs, maybe a coffee, maybe a chai.

With a final groan to ground you, you flip the covers and force yourself to sit up. Your braids are tightly wound, the natural lighting from the window causing your hair to glow and your freckles to surface and sparkle. From your tank top, a large tshirt covers you, fabric folding over your stomach and thighs, barely covering your underwear.

Should you say hi? Should you act like he’s not there and get on with your morning routine?

You decide the latter, swinging your legs to hang off the of the bed and scoot for your feet to touch the floor. Your arms raise, and you stretch, looking towards the sky as you silently thank the moon for allowing you to see another beautiful morning, letting the gratitude bathe you.

He simply stares.

You let him as you wander into the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth.

There is no way you’ll be less than presentable in front of a god, you whisper to the moon as your examine your small closet. Your eyebrows furrow- you cannot remember a time you contemplated looking presentable for someone else.

You can hear the moon giggle as you contemplate wearing one of your prettiest dresses that you specifically use for full moon nights. Or the new moon? What kind of energy are you bringing into this conversation?

Energy, your lips quirk. May he be enamored, for it is not about the dress but jewelry that adorns you.

You place yourself in lacy garments, a shimmer of silver and a soft green, puffy-sleeved, translucent blouse and lightly washed, high-waisted jeans. Matching, lacy socks and a silver necklace with a curled shell.

Glamoured rings slide themselves onto your fingers, and you inspect the finery wrapped around your flesh with a grin. Silver and gold bands with crystals wired around them and dipped into moon water and rose oil bound to convey any man to serve you. Hopefully a god, too.

Gold glitter smears across your eyelid, your cheekbones and a tap on your nose. Clear mascara and brow gel brushes its way on as you glow at yourself in the mirror.

Wetting your hair and re-curling your golden ringlets with a serum, you place two pearly clips to push aside the front pieces of your hair on each side, framing your face in the most pleasing way.

Terrifyingly beautiful.

I am dreamy, I am translucent, I am a child of the moon.

With a deep breath and another prayer to the moon, you’re gliding out of the bathroom.

May the moon bless this day.

“I’m hungry,” you state as your feet patter towards him sitting in the chair, his body did not move an inch, now holding one of your hair clips. You stand in front of him, nearly at eye-level. Perplexed, angry, annoyed, curious, lustful- all the emotions you could sniff out as he gave you a slow, deliberate look over.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” You breathe, refraining from twirling your fingers together. Asking, not taking, was not a talent of yours. It makes you blush, makes you sweat.

“Tell me how you serve your moon while you eat.”

You find yourself agreeing with the slightest of smiles.

@angeli-fucking-cat <3

#namor x reader #namor x you #namor fanfiction #tenoch huerta namor #namor smut #namor imagine #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #marvel universe #marvel headcanons #marvel writing #marvel fanfiction #my wreck this journal #writing #i hope so so much u enjoy #again.. dunno where to go from here! lemme know how you feel #if u got ideas plz send them my way

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secretsofdbz · 2 months

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Alright, timelines. (link to my old post)

Today I'm going to walk you through the cluster fuck of Toriyama not paying attention to what he writes from the Trunks arc to the epilogue of the Perfect Cell arc.

Reminder that I divide the "Android Saga" in 4 arcs:

Trunks arc (arrival of Frieza to 3yg training),

Android arc (until the time machine is discovered)

Imperfect Cell arc (until Cell absorbs 18)

Perfect Cell arc (+ epilogue of Trunks killing imperfect Cell)

I will also pull Toei and Daizenshu content if needed just to show how bad it gets, BUT that's just to enhance my argument. Everything here is manga-deductible without extra context or content.

As I've shown in the link above, the manga implies 4 timelines:

Forgotten timeline (Cell kills Trunks and steals his time machine),

Lost timeline (the timeline that dead!Trunks traveled to, which did not have a Cell pop in the middle of its Android Saga, otherwise Trunks would've known about Cell),

Future Timeline (the one we know and see, Trunks traveled to a uni where Cell traveled to first, so there's changes and Cell pops up in the Android saga),

Main Timeline (the one we know and follow, to which Cell and Trunks traveled to),

Let's go into details about dates and math and everything first. (under the read more because LONG)

When Future Trunks discovers dead!Trunks' time machine, he states that it comes from age 788, which is 3 years from where he comes from (which means he comes from 785), and that the Machine landed here "4 years ago". 4 years ago was about one year before Trunks first came (aka one year before Meca Frieza stuff).

During the first trip, Trunks states he comes from 20 years into the future.

That means during his first trip, he went from 784/785 to 764.

We also know he's 17 at this point and "will be born in 2 and a half years"

(Baby Trunks is supposed to be ~6 months old by May 12th, 767, so "I warn in 764, I'll be born in 2.5 years, so I was born in 766" works. Ignoring the wikis about Trunks' birthday being June and Future Trunks' birthday being in November, it doesn't matter here, we just need the years))

For Trunks to be 17 during his first trip, he needs to travel from 784 (before his 18th birthday). So by the time he comes back the second time, it needs to be in 785 (so he is 18!); since it takes 8 months to charge the machine (Trunks the Story manga chapter), that works out.

So in terms of trips, we have:

Trunks (both versions) : (early-mid) 784 to 764

Trunks (both versions): (early-ish) 785 to May 12th 767

Cell: 788 to 763

(handy recap sheet)

At the time, for Toei, there were only two Timelines (aka it was both multiverse theory AND dynamic time travel theory, because Trunks becoming aware of Cell who killed him means Trunks isn't killed by Cell... yeah it's all sorts of EHH ??):

Anyway, you'd think this would be fine right? The image of Cell killing Trunks while he still had his sword (which he shouldn't since he broke it on 18's arm he never used it again in canon) is anime filler, we're all good.

Except... no. This fucking panel right here. Cell explains "(the machine/bots collecting dna) could've gotten Trunks cells but didn't because we had enough Saiyan cells".

Cell supposedly comes from a timeline where GOKU killed Frieza and Cold. But this god forsaken panel contradicts that. (of course it's just that Tori forgot, but we are DB fans, we take things seriously and word of god of the manga is supreme and can't be wrong)

This means that THIS particular version of Cell doesn't come from the Forgotten Timeline.

The Cell we know and love/hate comes from a timeline in which a future Trunks killed Frieza and Cold, BUT everything still went to shit (Goku + gang dying, dead!Trunks traveling to the past, and coming back to destroy the Androids).

In this timeline, Bulma met Future Trunks (who killed Cold and Frieza) in 764, presumably the gang got all the warnings like in the main timeline, but everyone STILL died. So she invented the Time Machine to send her Trunks to the past (perhaps with different instructions so as to not repeat the mistakes of the Future Trunks she saw 20 years prior).

Here's the thing. There is a way for this timeline to exist. You "just" gotta work on the postulate that "each time there's a time travel to the past, a new branch is created". And "if the time machine travels back in time a second time, it lands in the timeline it first branched out unless it travels back further in time". Rephrased: The "784 to 764" trip created a new branch in 764. The "785 to 767" trip landed in that new 764 branch. However the "788 to 763" trip created a whole new branch in 763.

The Time Machine that was piloted by dead!Trunks actually "traveled further back in time", creating an earlier "branch"... which is why Trunks noticed changes, including Goku's late arrival (or Frieza's earlier arrival, we don't know).

Yes, because Future Goku did not use Instant Transmission to fight Frieza and Cold. We know he didn't because Future Bulma had the coordinates where Goku landed, which is how Future Trunks got said coordinates. If Goku had IT to fight Frieza and Cold, Bulma wouldn't have known where the pod was going to land 3 hours later.

So timelines and where does Cell come from? Well you need a timeline from the Branch that started in 764 (with a Future Trunks' arrival to kill Frieza and Cold) but in which everyone died to the Androids, and in which, when Trunks traveled back home, he was able to destroy the Androids...

Anyway here's my final recap of all the timelines in Z, in which "one time travel is one interference creating a new branch". And this is how we can see where Cell comes from :D

This opens a realm of possibilities!!

Did a version of Trunks stay in the past, during his first trip and got a wish to Shenron to have a way to destroy his androids, so he didn't come back in 767 and didn't grow strong at all? Did the future trunks that warned against the Androids but that timeline still went to shit approached the problem differently?? who knows! Time for fanfics and doujins I guess :D

Peace!

#time travel #dragon ball #dragon ball z #von rambles #future trunks #future goku #future bulma #time machine #dbz #db #bulma #timelines #obviously Toriyama just forgot and or didn't pay attention to what he was laying out but I love nitpicking and extrapolating from this stuff

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letters-from-dekarios · 13 days

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[There's a letter in your pocket you don't remember being there before you went off to fight the Netherbrain. The scribbly, barely legible handwriting tells you it's from your partner, Alethea. She must have slipped it to you at some point, but only the Gods know when.]

To my dearest,

If you're reading this, then it either means that I've met my end or I've forgotten to take this back from you. I can only hope it's the latter.

…Are you still there?

After everything that's happened, the past month has felt like it's accounted for so much of my life. I feel like I've been forced to grow, but that's probably for the best. I wonder what would happen if I told the me from last year about now? About spilling blood, stopping a city wide conspiracy…

Even falling in love would've sounded far-fetched, actually.

[There's a few bits of scribbles that might have been words once, but they're blurry and illegible.]

Am I still there? Are you still there?

I hope you are. I hope all of you are. I hope whole little brigade is still alive and well. Even Astarion. What are they doing now? Do you know?

Are they mad at me? I hope not. I hope that if there was anything I could teach them the entire time I knew them, I hope it would be to smile, even through hurting.

Did I really become the leader that I dreamed of?

What of you? Are you still there?

Are you making the most of what you have left? If I'm not the one you happen to be sharing lovely sunset views with, is there someone else there instead?

As bittersweet as it sounds, I hope so. I hope you still search for happiness, in some way, even if I'm not there to share it. But again- ideally I am.

I love you.

Always yours, Allie.

[You know she isn't dead, you saw her just this evening. A flurry of tears and anxiety before she ran off to Avernus, unable to handle the idea of Karlach dying. Anything you say, she won't see for a while yet,but there is one thing you both know in certain terms: You are still here.]

(OOC: Hi there! This is my first time doing something like this, so I hope it's both good and useable. Came out way longer than I wanted it to, but hey, that's just how it goes sometimes, right? You're doing great around here, it's very cool to see :) )

My sweet Allie,

I can only imagine the panic in your heart when writing this. I know you are safe, but the contents of your letter shake my core nonetheless.

I’m still here. I always will be. For you, I would fight the gods. I have, right by your side.

Trust that I recognize the feeling of madness when it comes to love. I would have never believed even the highest of prophets if they came to my door with this notion. But I am ever so glad I listened to my intuitions and accepted the longing fact of adoration that I hold for you. I would not change this for the world, you know that.

All of us here are doing well, my love. Astarion included. We see each other less frequently now, but I promise you, we all love you very, very much.

My love, my sweet love, I could not dream of moving on in this world without you. I hold your inspiration close to my heart as I long for the day we will be together again. You always were ambitious and caring, it is no surprise you followed Karlach to aide her.

Trust me, darling. You are all that I have ever wanted and more, I would never dream of finding another to replace you. No one person could come close. I am still here. I am still waiting. When you return, my arms will be open for you to run into.

Please, my love, do not hold such anxiety in your heart. Take care of yourself. I love you, I always will.

Yours forever,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔

text reads: gale dekarios

stoppppp this was so cute and so sad at the same time. I can imagine the panic in gale as he reads this and has to reassure himself a million times over that, yes, he did see her and she is okay. ughhh I love this so much ~ kore

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